Inklings de la Paternité
by Almost an Actress
Summary: "Marguerite Giry was six years old the first time she was asked about her father."


**Bonjour, again! I think I'm getting a little better at this whole PotO thing. So, this idea appeared to me one day. It'll be my first chapter!Fic for **_**Phantom**_**. Please don't kill me. **

**XXX**

Marguerite Giry was six years old the first time she was asked about her father. Christine Daae, who had been with them for a year now since her own father had died, had asked the question.

_ Eight-year-old Christine stood in front of the mirror in her nightgown, singing a soft tune as Meg brushed through her long brown hair. She stopped her song for a moment and gave a thoughtful pause. "Meggy?"_

_ "Yes? Don't stop singing, Christine, please," the six-year-old begged. _

_ "I'll keep going in a bit," Christine said patiently. "Can I ask you something, Meggy?"_

_ "Uh-huh," Meg said, sticking her tongue out of the side of her mouth in concentration as she parted the hair. _

_ "Where is your papa?" Christine asked her reflection. She admired it– how her long chestnut ringlets curled so well and framed her full, cream-skinned face. She was a bit displeased at the childish chubbiness of her cheeks, but Christine knew that she would grow out of it. She appreciated her innocent, lovely smile, practicing in the mirror, and then immediately felt guilty. Before he died, Papa had always cautioned her about becoming vapid and vain. _

_ "My…papa?" Meg said slowly. She stopped combing through her friend's hair, pausing to think. Where _was_ her papa? She had never had one, really. She didn't want Christine to think she was foolish, so she didn't answer "I don't know." She blinked her big blue eyes slowly, finally deciding on the response that made the most sense to her: "I don't have a papa, I suppose." _

_ "Oh, but Meg, everyone has a father," Christine insisted. "You have to have a father and a mother, because that's how science works. Papa explained it to me. It's all a nasty business, with…procreation and all that." She blushed, trying to get the disgusting images out of her head. She still remembered it – age six, her father showing her rather horrifying pictures in an old book, explaining exactly what…procreation…was. She shuddered. _

_ "What?" Meg asked, clearly confused. She didn't like it when Christine talked like this. She wasn't being snooty, exactly, but Meg didn't understand a word she was saying, and that frustrated the little girl. _

_ "Nothing," Christine said quickly. "Madame will explain it to you when you're older. Now, back to business. Where is your papa?"_

_ "Well…if I have a papa like you said…then I guess he's just not here," Meg concluded proudly. "That's where he is."_

_ Christine sighed. "You're six years old, Meggy. I don't expect you to understand. I'll ask when you're older."_

_ Meg frowned. "Okay, then. Will you keep singing, Christine?"_

_ Christine gave her reflection a knowing, weary smile, as if she was sharing an "oh, children are a trifle, aren't they?" moment with someone. She obliged Meg and sang a song about the ocean that Papa used to sing to her. _

XXX

The next time Meg was asked about her father was when she was ten years old, an official Ballet Rat; the youngest, actually. The question was asked by one of the male ballet dancers, a candid boy of thirteen named Florian.

_ Florian rested his foot against the barre, stretching. He grunted softly as his shoulder popped. "Little Giry?" he questioned, wincing in pain and rubbing his shoulder._

_ Meg, his constant companion, twirled across the stage to him. "Yes, Florian?" she asked. She eyed his shoulder. "Are you alright?"_

_ "Oh, I'm fine. I've been thinking – I've never seen your father around these parts. Madame is here, but what about Monsieur Giry?"_

_ Meg sighed, wringing her hands. She dimly recalled her discussion with Christine – now aged twelve, and too busy flirting with the young future Vicomte to pay attention to her blonde friend – from years ago. "I'm not sure, Florian," she answered honestly. "Maman and I have never really talked about it. I don't think she's keeping it from me, per say, but the need to talk about it has never come up." She was a smart child, well-versed with words._

_ "Oh. You ought to ask her," Florian suggested. _

_ Meg shrugged. For some reason, the idea settled oddly in her stomach, like a stone. An icy stone. _

_ "Little Giry?" her friend questioned._

_ "Sorry," Meg apologized. "I'm distracted."_

_ "Indeed you are," a cold voice said. "Children, get straight to practicing or you won't be in _Giselle_!" _

_ Meg blanched. "Yes, Maman," she murmured before scurrying away with a parting smile to Florian. She wanted to be in _Giselle_ with her entire being, and getting cast in the chorus had been the light of her ten-year-old life. Being paired to dance with Florian was a bonus, as they were good friends, and she was honestly quite smitten with him. She furrowed her brow and concentrated on getting her pirouette just right, certainly not thinking of a father that she didn't seem to have._

XXX

She was fifteen and considerably intoxicated the final time she was asked about her father. They were at a party for the entire cast and staff of the Opéra Populaire after a particularly successful production, and alcohol had been flowing. She was sprawled out across eighteen-year-old Florian's lap, giggling madly to herself. Florian, who was well along the intoxication road himself, wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her temple.

"Little Giry," he whispered, his mouth against her ear, "have I ever told you how _stunning _you are?"

Meg blushed from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. "No, Florian," she managed. "I…I would say not."

"Then I apologize sincerely," he whispered. "Because you are the most – most…lovely…" And then he was snoring, his head lolling over hers.

Meg cackled, snapping her fingers in front of the boy's face. He jerked awake, and she continued on with her crazy laughter. "You really think I'm lovely?" she teased.

"Yes," Florian slurred. "So…lovely I must ask you to kiss me." With that, he grabbed the girl and kissed her soundly.

Meg's eyes widened.

A wolf-whistle broke the two apart. It was eighteen-year-old Christine and her suitor, Raoul. They – also considerably intoxicated – felt as if they had just witnessed some amazing spectacle. Raoul staggered over to Florian and Meg, clapping a hand on Florian's shoulder. "Congratulations, _mon ami_!" he said at an inappropriate volume. "You've…wooed…the…fair maiden." He then got distracted by Christine.

"Indeed," Florian mumbled.

Raoul turned back. "Yes, indeed." He looked to Meg. "You know, Little Giry, I have to ask you – where is your father? I've been…m-meaning to ask you that for…awhile now."

Meg felt some sort of rage flare within her. "Why d-does everyone care so much about my…father?!" she fumed. "I do not know where…he is!"

Raoul looked confused for a moment, and then shrugged, leading Christine off. Florian was now fully asleep, and after a few more moments of rage, Meg was too.

XXX

Madame Giry looked at the thick, cream-colored stationary in her hand. In the familiar cramped cursive, a single sentence read: _You will have to tell the girl soon. _


End file.
